
A Testimonial Collection of 
FROM THE SCRANTON COAL-BED 



mm 




-Rv 



William Everitt Shepherd 



A Testimonial Collection of 

SPRAGS 



FROM THE SCRANTON COAL-BED 




3j^ 
William Everitt Shepherd 



Copyright, 1917 
By Wm. E. Shepherd 



INDEX 

PAGE 

A. D. 1916 22 

A Foul Hit 17 

Cleaning the Sump 58 

Confetti Throwing 57 

Hobbies 12 

Huckleberries 27 

Initiation 63 

Is It? 31 

Luck 41 

Maloney's Ghost 4 

My Faith 16 

Puss 20 

Silas Slowe 44 

Sprags 3 

Success 25 

Swallowing A Camel 49 

That Evil Root 38 

The Cross 51 

The Footmen 14 

The Mystery 23 

The Old Love and the New 53 

The Value of Wealth /,. : 32 

Unclassic -.• . ." 42 

Yes? 19 

©CLA455922 

MAR 17 1917 



SPRAGS 

"Hind in the third and double four last," 

A runner shouts his command to sprag; 
The cars o'er the run go speeding fast, 
Stopping, o'ercome by intended drag. 

The sprags are little billets of wood, 

Smooth, slender and pointed at each end. 

Which, when handled by a runner, good. 

Check downward speed and fine service rend. 

To check downward speed. Is that the goal? 

The mere sliding of a mine-car wheel? 
While carnal riches, as black as coal. 

Should the strength of moral spragging feel? 

Restraint, — the severest cup of gall. 

Excepting extreme effect of sin, 
Governs creation and yet withal, 

The real depth of love is found therein. 



Three 



MALONEY'S GHOST 

Maloney wore a drunkard's shoe, 

A sober breath he seldom drew, 

At first 'twas a glass, 

With friends of his class. 

But this hand-shake with Satan grew. 

He labored from morning till night. 

Never shirking with work in sight. 

But for just a sip 

Of poison, he'd slip 

To the bar and come home, a fright. 

The home that had once seen life sweet. 

With Annie, his wife, keeping neat; 

The furniture fine. 

Where a king could dine 

On the dainties she made to eat. 

"There never was a better man, 
For hard and faithful labor, than 
Michael," said the dame. 

"Alas, what a shame. 
That the drink he ever began." 

"Some day in darkness he will grope, 
'Twill be the end of his long rope, 
Happy-go-lucky, 
Rushing the duck-y. 
Or at the bar, drowning in dope." 

Four 



Worn, haggard, driven to despair, 
Floor and cupboard, both of them bare, 
His poor wife, Annie, 
Wrote home to Dannie : 
"Please wire at once my railroad fare." 

Dannie, her brother, serpent-wise, 
Knows the trouble and forthwith cries: 
'*ril take the next train, 
For to me, 'tis plain, 
Mike is scheduled for a surprise." 

In due season he stood beside 

A chair that held a wife, who cried. 

As she tried to tell 

Her vision of Hell, 

While waiting for the turning tide. 

^Remember, Dannie, days of yore. 
When love and hope drew us ashore ; 
The future so bright, 
Who would think of night. 
Hovering o'er our lives evermore. 

Michael was alway good to me, 
Making me happy as could be. 
But drink has its grip. 
Unseen in the nip. 
Which enslaves against liberty. 

In every way, I've vainly sought. 

To free the slave, so subtly caught. 

And my wounded pride, 

I strove hard to hide. 

But all, has at last come to naught. 



Five 



Thus why should I longer remain, 

Since love is now turned to disdain, 

All hope in this life, 

Of living it rife, 

Robbed of the sweets it should contain. 

Take me back home, there to forget, 

The scenes which here, daily beset 

My fears in alarm. 

Dreading the poor farm, 

The landlord with his sign : To let." 

"Annie," said Dan, "away your fears. 
False pride will alway end in tears, 
Sure, Mike has done wrong. 
But I'll change the song, 
He gaily sings amidst his beers." 

"No, Dannie, no. 'Twill do no good, 
Mike would quit, I know, if he could, 
But whiskey enslaves. 
And for it he craves. 
And who, fettered, can when they would?' 

"Are you defending thirst for drink? 
Have you a mind with which to think? 
Now listen to me. 
This night we will see. 
Effects of a third-party kink. 

Go up to your room and to bed. 

And leave me alone with the head 

Of the house, whose wit 

May suffer a bit. 

Because of the life he has led." 



Six 



Poor Annie went trembling with fright, 

Resolving not to sleep that night, 

For a scene, she knew 

Would surely ensue, 

So in fear, she turned out the light. 

Lying down on the bed to think. 

Off to sleep she went in a wink. 

And in sweet repose. 

All her trouble rose. 

To light on a man filled with drink. 

Dan waited, until from the stairs. 

Sweet melodies told him, her cares 

Had passed into sleep, 

And 'twas time to creep 

Out into the night unawares. 

He went o'er the path in the rear. 
To a dark, wooded thicket, near 
Which Michael must pass. 
Where the high green grass. 
Would aid in his mission of cheer. 

From under his coat came a sheet. 

Which went over his head to greet 

The drunken old scamp. 

The ragged old tramp, 

A wreck of the Devil, complete. 

Maloney, in ignorant bliss. 
Lingered long at the bar, to kiss 
The miss of his life. 
Who threw down his wife. 
And incites all men to do this. 



Seven 



A loafer, had given a toast, 
For the drinks all round from the host, 
'Twas a hair-raising, 
Hot old fire-blazing 
Stunt, pulled off by a truly ghost. 

This got Maloney's Irish up 

To where he'd rather fight, than sup, 

Such infernal foes, 

Whose internal woes 

Were even then firing his cup. 

In contempt, he frowned on the ring, 
For believing so vain a thing. 
T'd like one to see. 
Fur shure 'twould be me. 
To settle his hash with a swing." 

And he swung, the drunken old soak. 

In the strength of the words he spoke. 

But he toppled o'er. 

Through the open door, 

Which closed on Maloney, the bloke. 

There he lay unable to rise. 
Muscles and limbs his will defies, 
While imps dance in glee. 
Around such a spree. 
Which all men in the world despise. 

Many today, are just as weak. 

For spirits from their temple speak, 

By what they are fed, 

On the kind of bread 

That feeds the end the soul doth seek. 



Eight 



The humble man beneath a hod, 

Can be a king while life is trod, 

By seeking The Way, 

Truth and Life today, 

And drawing nearer unto God. 

But ah, perhaps you have begun, 
With boards of joy and nailed with fun. 
To build your own ark. 
What then of the dark 
Turbulent sea, without the sun. 

'Tis true of many, as 'tis said. 

They speak of life and live it dead. 

But its up to you 

To find it out true. 

And share the joy, for which Christ bled. 

His Spirit is behind no bluff. 

Nor can He mingle with the stuff 

That makes men savage. 

And pure life ravage. 

Although for you He lived life rough. 

His life on Earth was one of woe. 

For God, Our Father, willed it so, 

That we might be blessed 

When Satan assessed 

His own, through Adam's overthrow. 

He is the One, who holds in hand. 

All power in Heaven, sea and land, 

So to His glory. 

Repeat the story. 

How life in Christ is full and grand. 



Nine 



The vilest wretch can have His Arm, 

Protecting him and keeping warm 

Life's richest treasure, 

In fullest measure, 

The seed of love in Eden's charm. 

But just like Mike, the World must get 

Down in the mire so deep they let 

Themselves to reason. 

Wherein 'tis treason 

Against the soul, stifling regret. 

Repentence comes first in the deal, 

Then looking Heavenward to feel 

That pardoning grace, 

That shifting of place 

Of serpent in head, under heel. 

But the World at large will revolve, 
'Round the problem it cannot solve. 
Not willing to give. 
For real life to live. 
One jot of the strength 'twould involve. 

But preachers should preach to the end. 
And poets their energies bend, 
At least to save some, 
When Jesus shall come 
Dividing forever, life's blend. 
* * * * 

Poor Mike, from his sleep on the ground, 

Awoke chilly and likewise found 

Into a cold world, 

A bum had been hurled; 

Then he staggered off, homeward bound. 

Ten 



His feet seemed determined to play, 

Wild antics on slippery clay ; 

He laughed at their game, 

And jollied the same. 

Till his heart became warm and gay. 

As he came t'ward a certain tree, 

Humming an old Irish ditty, 

He saw the white spook. 

It sure was no fluke, 

A statue, like steel, became he. 

With out-stretched arms, the monster stood. 

Acting just like a spirit should, 

Then dropping a stone. 

Poor Mike gave a groan. 

For he thought all was up, for good. 

On weak knees dropped Mike, in his fright, 

As he prayed for life from the sprite. 

He spoke of good deeds. 

As though they were seeds, 

That called him forth into the night. 

But in vain was all his pleading. 
Whispered the ghost still unheeding: 
"You no more will sup 
Health in foaming cup. 
Henceforth you follow my leading." 

Maloney limbered up a bit. 
As unto self came back his wit. 
"I'd like to (hie) strike. 
Or else I'll (hie) hike. 
If you to one side (hie) will git. 

Eleven 



I'll never, never drink again, 

Good spirit, let me go, you can. 

But spirit, if bad. 

Remember 'tis sad, 

I'm married to your sister Ann. 



HOBBIES 



The boss hobbied his chickens, 

Mrs. fondled her cats, 
And both said : "To the dickens 

Hobby'n little brats." 

The workman slaved and battled. 

For a family of ten. 
His brother blithely rattled : 
"He should be in the pen." 

All are dead. What's their rating? 

Seed-sowing days are o'er, 
Their souls may be awaiting. 

This verdict at the door. 

Man ever was prone to judge. 

At cost of charity ; 
True brotherhood, minus grudge, 

Is a great rarity. 

Greatest thing in life is life, 

One God creating all. 
What constitutes, — life in life? 

Look out now lest you fall. 



Twelve 



When we see a leafless tree, 
We speak of it as dead, 

Nor think we that fruit might be 
Ripening on ahead. 

That tree was once a small seed. 
Finding root in the ground. 

It sprang forth to meet a need. 
Its creator had found. 

Or think it like "Topsy" grew? 

A matter of mere chance? 
When the barren fig tree drew 

Worthiness in a glance? 

Fruit, visible substance seen. 
Spurs living mortals on. 

Thoughtless of the orchard green. 
In eternity's dawn. 

Thus in furthering life's germ. 
Seeking its perfection. 

Hobby, though it be in term. 
May prove wise selection. 



Thirteen 



THE FOOTMEN 

Standing at the foot in the old Throop mine, 
Watching the footmen hoisting from the line, 
Of coal cars which they call a trip, 
Incessant toil without a slip, 
A human machine conclusively fine. 

No man on this job could very well shirk. 
An exchange is made in a twinkling jerk. 
When the carriage lands, car bumps car. 
The loaded sends the empty far 
From the foot, to where the mule drivers work. 

Thus like the working of a massive clock. 
With rope a pendulum, the cars, tick-tock, 
While high above are wheels galore. 
Turning with time, recording more 
Wealth on the market of some grade of stock. 

Would it not seem to watch the upward flow. 

That wealth and power would never run low? 

And as time rolls on we progress. 

In fathoming the hidden mess, 

God's infinite wisdom hath kept in stow. 

While labor is hard, yet a bitter pill 

Is swallowed with ease when it cures the ill. 

And the loafer will labor love. 

When his brawn warms up in the shove, 

On car after car the footmen's day fill. 



Fourteen 



The foot is timbered with many a log, 
Standing on end and o'erhead in a cog, 
While thus observing things down here, 
A footman's voice rang sharp and clear: 
'Quick man, grab a hook and pull off your dog." 

What queer sounding fact we herewith unfold, 

The dog just mentioned the car wheels doth hold. 

So whether deep down in the ground 

Or high above the earth, 'tis found. 

The dog stays on guard of riches untold. 



Fifteen 



MY FAITH 

How little of this world I've seen, 

But for this should I pine? 
Others 'round me enjoying keen, 
Life that's equally mine? 

Where then is profit on this ball. 
To see and hear and know it all? 

How little of The Book I know. 
Can't boast reading it thru, 
While others from the same root grow, 
A hope that's good and true. 

But some were saved in days of old, 
By garment touch, 'tis therein told. 



Sixteen 



A FOUL HIT 

Some poet of glowing renown, 

With regard for sentiment true, 
Knocking a knocker knocked this down : 
"It isn't the town but you." 

It's a nockin' nockers nocket, 

Regular fashioned nock-er-roo, 
And it's posy, this yere rocket, 
"It isn't the town but you." 

The blind man homeward bound is tired. 

Begging for alms he gets too few, 
His starving wife most likely fired : 
"It isn't the town, — but you." 

Liquor looks fine in glassy cup. 

Same with the juice the brewers brew; 
But when all things seem downside up, 
"It isn't the town,— but you." 

Gals are wisern they useter be, 

Pickin' their company they shoo, 
Mush like this up the bamboo tree : 
"It isn't the town, — but you." 

Home to dinner, must get back quick. 

Find it stewin' an' mother tew, 
Wife out o' temper throws this brick : 
"It isn't the town,— but you." 



Seventeen 



When belated at the office, 

With more bizness 'n he kin do, 
Red hair on his coat mix trophies, 
"It isn't the town but you." 

A day at home. Nobody comes. 

No where to go. Nuthin' to do. 
I sit and hum (twirlin' my thumbs), 
"It isn't the town but you." 

It's mean I know, to foul fair words, 

But what if you lived where I do. 
The hills echo this thing backwards: 
"It isn't the town but you." 



Eighteen 



YES? 

The devil posed so innocent, 

He gained entrance thru city's gate, 
Its chief, equally arrogant. 

Boasted of biting at his bait. 
And then the devil was to pay. 
He lost and losing, lost both way. 

Who knowingly would cast a vote. 
For a head, with nothing in it. 
Of moral worth to steer the boat, 
A mere ornamental trinket? 

Wont gambling imps come in the bay, 
While its high lights, a gambler gay? 

'* Fifty-fifty," was the glad shout. 

The fakirs o'er the city spread. 
"Don't you like it? Shut up. Get out. 
We pay the tax," the gamblers said ; 
And for savings of country jay. 
Wheels kept spinning both night and day. 

A rube in truth, the nabob was. 

And in his wrath he stopt the play. 
"We beat them to it," was the cause 

Of righteous wrath that underlay. 
Moralists cannot change his way, ( ?) 
Well, they can sprag election day. 



Nineteen 



PUSS 

'Twas a real hot day, 

T'wards the end of May, 

That I lazily strolled through town ; 

And my thoughts were far 

From the tragic bar 

That divides the up from the down. 

But a common scene, 

That appeals most keen, 

To lovers of nature I know, 

Was a pussy-cat 

Asleep on a mat 

With her kit, unmindful of woe. 

On her side she lay, 

In motherly way, 

That her kitten might get its fill ; 

She opened an eye. 

As I came by. 

But closed it again, lying still. 

The kitten had fed, 
For down went its head, 
Then o'er to one side as it slept ; 
'Twas pussy's fore paw, 
In stealthy cat law. 
That o'er it still vigilance kept. 



Twenty 



All alike are we, 

Neath the apple tree, 

That hath taken from life its charm ; 

We feast in trouble, 

For time gives double, 

Fruit harvest from Adam's old farm. 

But animal life. 

Is without the strife. 

That comes from a knowledge of sin 

But it pictures keen, 

A life most serene, 

That faith in the Saviour may win. 

And this thought arose. 

As I watched them dose, 

Which one is enjoying it best? 

Affectionate care 

Is certainly there, 

Contrasted with innocent rest. 

But this we all know, 

The kitten will grow, 

And some day a mother will be ; 

Unless like the cat. 

Dog, chicken or rat. 

An untimely death it shall see. 

All life here below. 

Must suffer and go. 

To its place in the Ark of God ; 

Excepting poor man. 

Who is under ban, 

He must find The Way or the rod. 



Twenty-one 



A. D. 1916 

Nineteen Hundred and Sixteen, should 
Stand as an epoch-making year, 
Unto the end of time. 
It raised the cross of virile good. 
Bringing to bay in humble fear 
The earth-god in its clime. 

In two ways chiefly was this done, 
Avoiding war's most cruel waste, 
Both without and within. 
Without, it challenged with the gun, 
Within, the brotherhood it braced. 
To fight and fight to win. 

In these same instances there howls 

Remonstrance from the living dead. 

In guise of common-weal ; 

But all is fair in war that fouls. 

The, path that humble men must tread, 

Trampling good under heel. 

Oh glorious year, thou art blest. 
Through human agencies of God, 
To wear a spotless crown. 
Soon wilt thou be among the rest. 
Dead thy body but soul shalt trod. 
Ages in thy renown. 



Twenty-two 



THE MYSTERY 

While the world thru the ages down hath had, 

Its infidels and skeptic men, 
Assuming content in life is a fad, 

By theorists, thru tongue and pen. 

Beneath the surface unsettled there lies, 

A doubt on existence of hell. 
The spirit within derisively cries. 

In faith its existence to tell. 

No mortal thus found is wholly at ease. 
Though disposed to outwardly mock, 

Self-satisfied conscience never will seize. 
Occasion to undermine rock. 

"No one has ever come back and told me," 

Is as old as the hills in fame ; 
No one e'er will come back to enfold thee. 

Is the hidden ken you thus frame. 

*While I nothing know, 'tis as much as you, 
Or any one else on earth knows." 

Is a frank admission you would like to 
Uncover life's secret of woes. 

An arguing cynic is a good find. 
Who will argue his point alone. 

For the world at large is to truth unkind, 
Thru ages this also is shown. 



Twenty-three 



The choicest of words in speech, song or pray'r, 

Removes no mount of unbelief, 
But the pow'r of God in a heart laid bare, 

Alone brings to souls full relief. 

Many things of Scripture have been proved true. 

Geographically proclaimed. 
But as God sees fit to hide much from you, 

The whole Book as truth is defamed. 

In reading The Word earnestly, sincere, 

One's own image is seen as plain. 
As the mirrored-glass reflects features clear. 

Of the latter do we complain? 

No one will ever seek the living Christ, 

In God's Word and find searching vain, 

For at Jacob's well, to this day the tryst. 
Is the cup true thirst yearns to drain. 

When once you have drank the greatest known draught. 

That e'er moistened the lips of man. 
No more will you say with bitterness fraught. 

What those in dark ignorance can. 

No more will you fear the tortures of hell. 

Nor count failures in life a loss. 
No more will the scofif mingle words that tell, 

Of an apple tree and a Cross. 

No more will a doubt hold you in its grip. 

No more forever will you fear, 
'Tis the love of God that comes in that sip, 
By the hand of One you'll hold dear. 

Twenty-four 



SUCCESS 

How many today, 

On the bottom round, 
Are seeking the way. 

That others have found. 
Who, now at the top, 

Are under full sail, 
In reaping the crop, 

That doth there prevail. 

How many have tried, 

By laboring hard. 
And casting aside, 

Whate'er might retard. 
The progress desired, 

Toward the great goal. 
The which hath inspired. 

Heart, body and soul. 

How many have found. 

The world icy cold. 
Charity aground. 

Aye and walls untold, 
Built across their path. 

With intent to stall. 
The success that hath 

Loomed, but for a fall. 



Twenty-five 



How many have said, 

'Tis no use to try, 
To forge on ahead 

To pass the strong by, 
For those in the van, 

Abilities sway. 
Which act as a ban, 

Unto lesser clay. 

How many have thought 

Life, an endless chain 
Of link-hardships caught. 

And welded again. 
And felt 'twas no use. 

To divert the flow. 
Of the world's abuse. 

As thru life we go. 

How many reason 

The truth they possess. 
And try to season 

It in a new dress ; 
'Twere better by far 

To be striving well. 
Than wrecked on the bar 

Of despair and hell. 

How many will act. 

When the truth comes home. 
As a latent fact 

From beneath the foam 
Of an angry sea. 

That hath lashed its spray. 
And yield, like a tree 

To power, its sway. 



Twenty-six 



HUCKLEBERRIES 

My brother Ed, sez he t' me : 
"We'll go a berryin' t'morra lad." 
Gee whiz. But mebbe now I wuzzent glad, 
An' skited 'roun' likea wild bee. 

An' 'fore the time t' go t' bed, 
I undressed mysel' still a dreamin' wild, 
An' offs t' sleep like any tired chile. 
Wot had such vizzions in 'is head. 

An' t'oughts kep' tumblin' jest as though. 
They knew th' mornin' wouldn't find me 'wake, 
An' that I'd cry an' squirm when Ed 'ould shake 
"Hustle lad, if you wanta go." 

An' mother came an' laid me straight, 
An' talked so comfortin' I almost cried. 
But let it go an' jest natur'ly sighed, 
B'cause I'se 'fraid I'd sleep 'till eight. 

But would ya b'lieve, jest at dawn, 

I ups an' dresses mysel' all alone? 

Then down in th' yard near th' ole grindstone, 

I looks t' see if pails were gone. 

Whoop! My feelin's I can't d'scribe. 
At seein' our Ed, the smile on 'is face. 
As grabin' his pail an' settin' the pace, 
A wishin' for more of our tribe. 



Twenty-seven 



Fer miles an' miles we hoofed along, 
O'er steep an' rocky mountain roads an' trails, 
Nor wasted our breath a talkin', th' pails 
On our arms kep' a swingin' song. 

An' when we reached th' berry patch, 
"Two birds with one stone," Ed sez, "now we'll kill.' 
Doffin' our coats, in our lunch with a will. 
We went th' limit as clean as a match. 

An' by that time feelin' rested, 
We went snoopin' aroun' fur a good place. 
Where berries were thick an' takin' a taste, 
'Til like th' birds we got nested. 

Ever hear rain hit a tin pail? 
Not in its fastness but th' big drops pound? 
Sounds likely music if not 'tirely bound, 
T' fill your bucket without fail. 

Jes' like all kids, last year I cried. 
Fur a ten-quart pail on th' night afore. 
But th' two-quarter wus too much an' more, 
Fur a kid to fill. I know fur I tried. 

Aw shucks. But that pail is no more, 
An' I am a year older now than then. 
An' Ed said, sez he: "Kin ya fill this Ben?" 
I nodded and wished it twice four. 

When I'd picked hard, a plump full hour. 
Midst such huckleberries you never saw. 
Our Ed comes an' looks an' then sez : "O pshaw ! 
You're treatin' your face t' a show'r." 

Twenty-eight 



An' I knew better'n give 'im guff, 

Fur 'e wouldn't think twice t' dust my pants, 

An' 'e often sez 'e hated boys cants. 

So I went fur th' bushes ruff. 

Oh the bottom o' that tin pail, 
How I longed to feel 'twas completely hid. 
An' afore I knowed, in th' shade I slid. 
An' asleep picked clean t' th' bale. 

Then as I turned my face t'word home, 
I heard some one call, the voice of our Ed, 
An' when 'e came, could you heard wot 'e sed, 
You'd ne'er think it fit fur a po'm. 

'You rascal, I 'low you're asleep. 
Now hustle a bit 'fore I pull your wool. 
Fur you'll not go 'ome 'till your pail is full," 
An' the rest would make a stone weep. 

So once agin th' hot ole sun, 
Found a tender spot on the skin o' Ben, 
But I didn't mind it half so much then, 
A wishin' that I could jest run. 

I picked an' I picked, but oh my! 
T' make a full pail I knew I couldn't. 
An' beggin' our Ed 'e sed 'e wouldn't 
Go home nor help me 'til I'd try. 

I picked some more an' then I see 
Our Ed stretch himsel' full length in the shade, 
Then a thought stole up 'bout makin' a trade, 
O' pails in the shade o' that tree. 



Twenty-nine 



His pail wuz much bigger'n mine, 
But sum brush thrun about it an' 'twould seem, 
Much smaller, an' its fullness wuz a dream. 
An' I thought I did it up fine. 

'Is that the pail you're go'n t' tote?" 
Sez our Ed a pickin' th' other up, 
In less than a jiffy 'e filled th' cup, 
An' then sez 'e : "Put on your coat." 

B'lieve me frien's, I'll alius feel 
Whene'er I'm tempted, like a buckin' goat, 
That pail was heavier than Noah's boat. 
An' our Ed, 'e lufYs kids wot steal. 



Thirty 



IS IT? 

It beats the Dutch and no doubt will, 
As long as there are Dutch to beat, 

Why toilers in religion's mill 

Will strew the grist along the street. 

And aint it funny how a man 

Heeds not abuse, can he but tell. 

His belief of life under ban. 

And of the certainty of Hell? 

Some readers, no doubt, will be shocked 
To see that word spelled out in full, 

For they have minds wherein is locked 
The thought that hell is but a bull. 



Thirty-one 



THE VALUE OF WEALTH 

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, — 
Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twent-; 

Horrors, what a terrible scene, 
What a deplorable event. 

Old Aunt Chloe, as she was known, 

Was seemingly counting her wealth, 

In truth, reaping what she had sown, 
During her term of robust health. 

No, not at a table sitting. 

Making pillars of bright gold coin. 
But in bed with time fast flitting. 

Tolling her everlasting groin. 

All her life 'twas money, money. 
Making it and making it work, 

'Twas her dream of milk and honey. 
Her god, her all, eternal irk. 

Now she lies counting the quilt knots, 

Each one touched means a dollar more. 

Thus the house that she has built, blots 
Bright prospects of a heavenly shore. 

How can a soul be so centered? 

Think you this an imagined tale? 
I would that it had so entered. 

Or that I ne'er had heard her wail. 



Thirty-two 



But having known, seen and heard her, 
Life history was keenly sought ; 

As the details of a murder, 

Are not without their morals fraught. 

Yea, and what's more, 'tis not ended, 

Some future bard may some day write. 

Of a "Chloe" who hath wended 

The same dark road, shunning the light. 

And as thoughts toward her gather, 
For Pentecostal pow'r of pen. 

Might I well pray and yet rather. 

She read the truth and say, "Amen." 

John Bevan to Miss Chloe White, 

Was once a happy announcement, 

A diamond ring had sealed their plight, 
And with it an allowance went. 

Right at the start of keeping house, 
Their outfit was like a palace. 

Nothing too good for Johnnie's spouse, 
Ah ; there was a seed of malice. 

He sought to anticipate her, 

To gratify her every whim, 
And in return he faced a slur, 

Her appreciation of him. 

The finest vehicle on wheels. 

He bought without use to himself, 

But instead of a kiss, she feels, 

He has found an entrancing elf. 



Thirty-three 



Does she wish for a single thing, 
As though happiness therein lay, 

Before the moon sets twice, 'twill bring 
The spirit of a brighter day. 

'Oh, John. What did you get that for, 
It isn't worth the room it takes," 

And thus began domestic war. 

That gives life's joy endless heart-aches. 

Finally, John being human. 

And having stood or withstood, well 
Much more than ought any good man. 

He quits the house and former belle. 

Then the gossips come in to dine, 

And spook around for closet gore, 

Filling up on skeleton wine, 

They spue their store from shore to shore. 

Divorce is an evil proper, 

A damnable curse to mankind, 

It fills the devil's own hopper. 

With all the victims it can find. 

So while John can't stand it longer. 
To be humbled and crossed in ire. 

He does the right thing nor wrongs her, 
In sending allowance by wire. 

But that old devil, now grounded 
In the vacancy John has made. 

Surveys the wealth that is bounded. 
By deeds, while he remains unpaid. 



Thirty-four 



Then he seeks for a damage suit, 

And keeps monkeying with the law, 

For this world's wealth is Satan's fruit, 
And in strife is his right-hand paw. 

Thru long weary years the old feud. 

Was hashed and rehashed in the court, 
No remorse ever touched the wooed. 
While Satan bombarded the fort. 

When at last his property gone. 

Poor Chloe herself was thrown out, 

Nor was there yet the faintest dawn. 
Of life's import; 'twas still a pout. 

The old man once more buckled down, 
To hard labor and saving ways, 

Determined his sorrow to drown. 
While he filled his allotted days. 

In a few years he owned a farm. 

But 'twas dreary living alone. 
So one of his kin came to warm 

The hearth of one whose mate had flown. 

Ah, yes indeed, the bird had flown, 

A raving maniac was she. 
Reaping the harvest she had sown. 

Counting the dollars, one, two, three. 

Then came a respite — wonder why? 

From the asylum she would flee, 
If John would only let her die 

Beneath his roof she'd happy be. 



Thirty-five 



Silent, aged, white-haired old man. 
Sent his carriage there to comply, 

And hardly had she arrived, than 

To bed she went and went to die. 

But 'twas a long lingering death, 

Unconscious to all things save one : 
''Twenty-eight, twenty-nine," a breath, 
Then her count anew she begun. 

The mercy and fortitude shown 

By old John w^as worthy a saint. 

Standing at her bedside unknown. 
Unloved, a picture sad to paint. 

And I trust that long ere he reads 
Himself in name of John Bevan, 

He will have found the way that leads 
Thru the open door of Heaven. 

And Aunt Chloe. How sweet was death, 
For the poor old suffering soul. 

Counting to its edge, then a breath 

Took her back to earth's darkest hole. 

One day, all sitting together, 

Discussing her case, pro and con. 

The frail invisible tether, 

To life that was still holding on. 

Wondering when her pain would cease. 
Of her endless count for one more, 
'Twas given (the thirtieth piece). 

She grasped it and quickly passed o'er. 



Thirtv-si.v 



'Tis the saddest lesson of life, 

The life that is centered in self, 

Whatever the future holds rife. 

We suffer for hoarding our pelf. 

And when all things around us fade. 
So that little on earth gives joy. 

We are standing in our own shade. 
And the Devil is playing coy. 

Say not friend, I don't believe it. 

Nor that it won't happen to me, 
Unless love by the Christ is lit, 
'Tis the main road of destiny. 



Thirty-seven 



"THAT EVIL ROOT" 

Tm looking for a vacant room, 

To open a good tailor shop, 
The finest cloth, right off the loom, 

And workmanship, A-1, old Top." 
The speaker was a spruce young man, 

In the bar-room of Mac's Hotel, 
No sooner had he spoken than 

Mac pointed to one on the "L." 

Inviting all to help him break, 

A bran-new twenty dollar bill. 
Ne'er before did the bottle slake. 

So many throats, nor then, until 
All had wished the tailor good luck 

In getting started at his trade ; 
Taken in by this sort of truck. 

The tailor stood and stood and paid. 

The room he took, advancing rent. 

And then looked after coming freight ; 
In Mac's hotel he freely spent. 

The while he patiently did wait; 
Mac and the tailor were like chums, 

Mac with the gush and tother gold, 
They together drew more dry bums. 

Than the Burg was licensed to hold. 

Three days went by and no freight yet. 

His telegrams of no avail, 
The tailor had begun to fret. 

Although he showed a lot of kale ; 



Thirty-eight 



Mac was truly sympathizin', 

Expressing hope 'twould yet end well, 
'Twas in his mitt, thus advisin', 

And for his gush the tailor fell. 

The next day was a stormy one, 

It rained and blew and acted raw. 
No bums 'round, not a mother's son, 

Gloomiest day you ever saw. 
'Bout ten o'clock, in came a gent. 

In an up-to-date tailor-made. 
Whose togs and graceful manner sent 

Mercury a lookin' fur shade. 

Called for a nip and paid for it, 

But seemed in no hurry to drink, 
Mac's attention was drawn a bit 

To some gold which made his eyes blink. 
"A dentist owed me some money, 

And I couldn't get a blamed sou. 
But this is as pure as honey. 

Just show it to your friend there, do." 

Mac and the tailor looked it o'er, 

While their eyes were bent on the bulge, 
For this stuff's made many eyes sore. 
And will, e'er its secret divulge. 
"How much have you got of this slag?" 

Indifferently spoke the chum. 
"Ten pounds has been marked on this bag, 
A soft five thousand dollar plum." 

"Mac," whispered the chum, "I've a friend 
Who's a bird on an acid test, 
I'll have him drop in. Get the trend? 
It's the safest way to invest." 

Thirty-nine 



In less time than it takes to tell, 

The friend met Mac at the back door, 

And the upshot of it was, — well. 

They arranged to take it all o'er. 

Mac put up eight hundred, in cash, 

The friend, a thousand dollars wrote, 

Mac to hold the glittering hash, 

'Til friend to gent secured the note ; 

Together they went to the bank, 

O'er a street that led out o' town, 

They didn't even wait to thank 

The tailor for making their gown. 

Then Mac grew more impatient, far, 

Than the tailor awaiting freight. 
He left the latter tend the bar, 

While he went hunting fortune, fate ; 
Three hundred more was in the till. 

As near as Mac could recollect. 
But the next bunco tailor will 

Leave Mac's place with a broken neck. 



Forty 



LUCK 

If you see a pin, pick it up, 
And all day long you will have luck ; 
The couplet may miss truth a mile. 
But it's a deception worth while. 

Luck, the angel of election, 
Thus prevents dreaded infection. 
Of poisonous germs gaining hold, 
Thru the charms of a maxim old. 

Do unto others as you would 
They should do unto you, is good 
For more than mere statement of fact. 
When acceptance is made in act. 

But this motto dies a quick death. 
Comes and goes not unlike our breath. 
We feel its presence in our self, 
And then that ends the little elf. 

But stimulate the mind of all. 

With visions of a bounding ball. 

And then comes worldly thoughts of luck, 

Many of them not worth a shuck. 

''Cast your bread upon the waters. 
And after many days — ," totters ; 

'Rub it on wood and 'twill come good," 
Is far better, that's understood. 



Forty-one 



UNCLASSIC 

Many poems, of late, I read. 

Seeking the drift of other minds, 

As a horseman sizes a steed, 

Common purpose in life oft binds. 

Yet, withal, this doesn't prove true. 

Not with mankind all the way through. 

Poems many nowdays glitter 

With radiant phrases of wealth. 

Sentences as : "I should twitter" 
Are not given a bill of health ; 

But withal, they are oft "the cheese," 

To bring home worth in ways that please. 

Hang the poem or its writer. 

If an interpreter must tell 
Its meaning in channel lighter. 

When language simples does full well ; 
You may class me, unclassic brutee. 

Discerning not poetic beauty. 

Little children blow soap bubbles, 

Wherein colors defy artists. 
And this elegant dope doubles 

The impossibles of smartists ; 
Both of 'em come from common clay. 

And both are moral, so they say. 



Forty-two 



Still there is room for other lights, 

Warning outposts, along the shore, 

For life hath its enduring nights. 

Before the day hath crowned it o'er. 

No one so weak he has not worth, 
God-given talent for this earth. 

Encouragement oft fails to come, 

From the expected, yearned for source. 

The weakest effort made doth some. 
Comfort give a still weaker force. 

Despair not though the night be dark. 

Life's greatest cruise is a weak bark. 

And what is more, there is no end 

To good we each may find to do ; 

Of all the words that have been penned. 
The half of love, "lo" (it is true). 

Hath never yet been told to man, 
The Omnipotent, alone, can. 



Forty-three 



SILAS SLOWE 

Old? Well Middling, no spring chicken, 

Though to hear him, *'Gist in his prime, 
Tougher'n a bull at pig-stickin', 

A workin' hisself the hull time, 
Head shaggy'rn a buffalo, 

But never a lookin' so mean, 
Alius tink'ring somethin', you know. 

Aye sure the old codger you've seen. 

No mortal ever was kinder, 

To babes than wuz Si to his flocks. 
Horses were strangers to blinder. 

And no muzzle muzzled his ox. 
He might sic the dog on the shoats, 

A grindin' their organs too loud, 
Or the colts a tramplin' the oats. 

The cattle when the bars they crowd. 

The farm, just like any other, 

Stript of its timber 'long the pike. 
The diff'rence of siss 'n brother, 

Is mainly in looks 'n the like ; 
The old sire, of course, was farmin'. 

Until over the bar he went. 
When Si started bees a swarmin', 

Seekin' milk-and-honey content. 

From bees to cattle wandered he. 

With now and then for life between. 

Living visions worth while to see, 

Chickens, sheep and hogs on the green 

Forty-four 



All blooded stock at first he tries, 
And to the fair he took his best, 

But the other rube got the prize, 

So now with common stock he's blest. 

The sun a shinin' in the West, 

But withdrawin' its strongest rays, 
As old earth raised her western crest, 

Wuz going down on happy days. 
As down the lane Si set the pace. 

His mind rollin' o'er fifty years, 
Since he had entered this yere race. 

Of grindin' knocks midst tears an' fears. 

'Yas, neighbor, life's a steady grind, 

A fightin' more foes than you'd think, 
The wisest mortal is yet blind, 

To a wiser and meaner mink ; 
A givin' my hull life a look. 

And I'm glad it is nearly o'er, 
Fur if I understan' the Book, 

The good Lord holds better in store. 

A different leanin' than dad's. 

To suit mysel' I've run the farm. 
So its quite nat'ral that my lads, 

Have notions of the city's charm. 
I'm gittin' old and stiff and sore. 

Fingers cramp an' crack open too, 
So milkin' cows is now a chore, 

Which all in all's too much to do. 

Sometimes I 'low I'll let 'em go, 

Together with the hogs and sheep, 



Forty-five 



An' take life easier, you know, 

Havin' only a few I'd keep ; 
A thinkin' an' a plannin' it, 

And a countin' the woolly sheep, 
'Rouses my feelin's fur a bit. 

An' then the hull thing's lost in sleep. 

You know, there's one thing I can't do. 

To sort the critters out I'd sell. 
For I would have to keep a few. 

For milk and butter, sick or well. 
Here's 'Nellie' for instance, good cow. 

None better for milk ever born ; 
This one, 7^^"^/ so gentle, I 'low 

She knows not the use of her horn. 

And this one just crossing the bars. 

Worth a dollar a day in milk, 
Though pretty well covered with scars, 

She is tempered as smooth as silk. 
Spot, old girl, how comes it today. 

You're comin' along with the rest? 
If she wasn't a run-away, 

I'd say of all cows, she's the best. 

Rosa, alius the family pet. 

Just as gentle as one can be, 
And this one you can safely bet, 

Wuz lying down beneath a tree ; 
Here comes Brindle, look at her eye, 

No tricks wuz she e'er known to play, 
But yonder by the rail fence high, 

That red one is a trifle gay. 



Forty -six 



There's one of 'em still further back, 

Must think hersel' a zepelloon, 
Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack, 

Or the one that went o'er the moon. 
But yet, fur all, I love each one. 

An' they know that I love 'em too, 
To think o' partin' an' I shun. 

E'en the thought of what I must do." 

Thus it was, each cow in turn. 
As the critter came into view, 

And for old Si, my heart did burn. 

In the task that he couldn't do. 

My thoughts that night, lying in bed, 

Were of the man the world calls Slowe, 

The lowly type of life he led. 

And of what he couldn't let go. 

He weighed not their value in gold, 

A weakness we'll say in the man ; 
But what of love, if bought or sold? 

Of hope beyond, what will it span? 
What of the love that's in us all. 

Sadly misplaced in this world's charm? 
Like old Si, don't we spurn the call. 

To cut asunder its strong arm ? 

When love loses her elegance. 

Queer conceptions will stick in mire, 
Our youth will court the harmless dance, 

In preference to the church choir ; 
The wives and sweethearts in style will go, 

However immodest decreed. 
And all through life, just like Si Slowe, 

In martyrdom their poor hearts bleed. 



Forty-seven 



Old Si is closely related, 

When we love and cannot let go ; 
Our souls too heavily freighted, 
Values we shun to ever know ; 
**I give up myself," thoughtless sung, 
"And whatever I know," in tune. 
When the pleasures I love are hung, 
In the shadow behind the moon. 

The Shepherd, to the world is slow, 

A possessor of some few sheep, 
Wouldn't He loathe to let some go, 

That He would have the less to keep ? 
Old and stiff, disfigured and scarred. 

With virtues unworthy of name, 
Has any one found the fold barred, 

When yearning to enter the same? 

Shall we drink the water He gives? 

He has said we shall never thirst, 
And we know that the life He lives, 

Is free from the one that's accursed ; 
Is there meaning to us in woe? 

Or as cattle just live to feed. 
And drink to our health as we go, 

Thru life's valley of constant need? 

Can we contemplate the sore grief. 

Occasioned when one becomes lost? 
Can we claim a Christian belief, 

Idly watching the tempest tost? 
Although we be at times like beasts. 

Unto God be praise for reason. 
That thru the love of Christ, love feasts. 

Doth await His own in season. 



Forty-eight 



SWALLOWING A CAMEL 

Don't drink except from your own cup, 

Bacteria may be lurking, 
Beware of fruit not covered up, 

While the doctor's brain is working. 

Swat the fly and then another, 

Keep the good work moving along, 

For He who created mother. 

The bad fly created He wrong. 

Art well? Then be vaccinated. 

Make acquaintance with surgeon's knife, 
For to be assassinated 

Is the acme of modern life. 

Touch not your tongue with your fingers, 

Do not lick a revenue stamp, 
On either there surely lingers. 

The little bacteria scamp. 

Discontinue using pencil, 

That serves for a spoon in the ear, 
Postman's handiest utensil. 

That kisses your lips without fear. 

Think of the hole in the doughnut, 

Of the millions lying in wait. 
Death in the long run is slow, but 

It's working within your old pate. 



Forty-nine 



This dread of germs is going some, 
When no more can we osculate, 

In good old-fashion, sweetheart, chum, 
Lest guiltless fear shall coronate. 

Her rosy cheek may be as fair. 

Or fairer than the sweetest fiow'r. 

But good-night-kiss will not find there. 
Impress of love, in parting hour. 

An ounce of prevention, my dear. 

May be worth its full pound of cure, 

But in your upturned cheek, *tis clear 
Beneath the rose, I this endure. 

Where true love is, fear goes awing, 
And good reason, it has no end, 

So may the kiss with echo ring, 

From lip to heart in loving wend. 

Where true love is. Do not confound 
The sentiment with earth-bound ties. 

All microbe-glooms lose their playground, 
When love connects earth to the skies. 



Fifty 



THE CROSS 

When we lie down to sleep, you know, 

We shut the door on this world's woe. 

But woe, sometimes awaits 

The dreamer, with dire fates 

And fills his soul with anguish, deep and keen. 

Men of learning and strong of will, 
Scorn such visions, as fancy's mill. 
Reflections of the mind, 
Morbidity, in kind. 
Products of deficit physical health. 

Who hath not of the Pilgrim's read. 

Their thorny path through Bunyan's head 

And lauded his good wit. 

Of making dreams to fit 

A vacant spot wherein all men are weak. 

Now did our John know dreamy bliss. 

All the while he was writing this? 

Or shiver in his cell. 

With his thoughts verging Hell 

As he wrote, dreamed and prayed for you and me. 

Who now could judge of life's estate, 

From mother's arms to Heaven's gate. 

If all would think it vain 

To suffer this World's pain. 

Denying thus, the truth a chance of proof. 

Fifty-one 



Who can best sift the ills of life 

To find the good where it is rife ; 

Lift burdens of others, 

Share hardships with brothers, 

Lest by the power as found in the Cross. 

Should this same strength abound in dreams, 

It is but life in new found streams. 

Coming to the rescue, 

Making each ill bless you. 

While on the pathway struggling to ascend. 

Why not, therefore, bring dreams to light. 

If by this means, a stronger fight 

Can be waged against sin 

And the weak helped to win 

On the field of battle where stands the Cross. 

Since the fall of Adam, the First, 

All mankind has suffered in thirst; 

In Adam, the Second, 

Are all men now beckoned 

Unto Him to come and thirst nevermore. 

In theory, this is a dream ; 

At least to the world it must seem — 

But to us, purest gold. 

Sweetest story yet told. 

How Jesus is Christ by way of the Cross. 



Fifty-two 



THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW 

Twas love that coursed the paps at birth 

And filled the old lull-a-by song 
With hallowed bliss, nor was the dearth 

Of it felt, for ever so long. 
Cultured voices have I since heard, 

In the choir, at home or a stage. 
But who gainsays the passing word. 

Mothers' lull surpasses the age. 
Though some may ridicule the air. 

That calms waters o'er little pools, 
Memory may not be as fair 

As childhoods most treasured jewels. 

Later, a little doll I loved. 

Its features and dresses so bright, 
A drum and off the doll was shoved, 

(Infantile love, unanchored spright.) 
Then came I to my marbles, round. 

And the many games played at school, 
I loved to scamper o'er the ground. 

And love everything but a rule. 
Some say so wise, boys will be boys, 

Beneath lies meaning black as ink, 
Void their heart for innocent joys. 

Not thinking as they ought to think. 

Long-eared rabbits had I for pets, 

Red eyes and fur so soft and white. 

But I was left with deep regrets 

When a thief stole my pets one night. 



Fifty-three 



Then father brought me home a dog, 

A cute Httle yellow feller, 
Docile and harmless as a frog, 

'Cept to the rats in the cellar. 
He used to go with me down town, 

He knew the way as well as me ; 
Whene'er I'd send him back he'd frown 

And look as sheepish as could be. 

He'd carry in his mouth my books 

And never lay them down to play, 
And say, you could tell by his looks 

Just what his heart was wont to say ; 
Suppose I tell the tricks he'd do. 

The chum life that he and I led, 
No I won't — it still makes me blue 

When I think of my dog that's dead. 
Then I loved to sit on the stoop 

While grandpa told a weird fable, 
While twilight hours raced head to droop 

The end of the day to label. 

I loved to sail out on the lake. 

And I'd row all o'er creation ; 
I loved to swim and dive and make 

A stir to create sensation. 
I learned to love some habits too. 

Of which I am not now so proud, 
Though some perhaps would surprise you- 

We'll hide 'em all behind a cloud. 
Habits of life, besetting sin, 

Not always on the surface bad. 
But when they hold one's self within. 

Then they are moulding life real sad. 



Fifty-four 



A fishin' for blue-gills and bass, 

And a diggin' the ground for bait, 
Filled many hours that swiftly pass 

Too swift, e'en to this very date ; 
For I still love to fish — don't you? 

To hope, as I reel out the line 
That I will get a strike or two 

And to hear some one say : "They're fine.' 
You don't know the some one I mean, 

Should it be a hundred years hence? 
The tree t'ward the water doth lean 

With near the same significance. 

A sweetheart I did truly love. 

At least, I thought so while it last, 
But a-wing like a frightened dove 

It left yesterday in the past. 
'Twas then an angel hove in sight 

And I lay my life at her feet. 
But alas ; it was I took flight 

And for years life was bitter-sweet. 
Oh, those dark years I roamed about. 

Little thinking she knew it all ; 
She, naught to me and without 

Love that hides a murderer's fall. 

Like Solomon in days of old, 

I tried all things for peace of mind, 
But found it vain, vexatious, cold. 

Feeling my way as do the blind. 
Despair and gloom now hand in hand. 

Led me by day in darkest night. 
O'er paths untrod in a strange land, 

'Til I found the coveted light. 



Fifty-five 



It was love at the spring I spurned, 

Without which no mortal is whole; 

'Twas to quench a thirst that I yearned 

For the health of heart, mind and soul. 

So now I've the love that is true, 

'Twas opened at infinite cost; 
A love that's large enough for you. 

Without it we're both of us lost. 
In truth, the world was my first love, 

Our courtship was varied and long; 
Tiring, I found the church above, 

The glory of the worldly throng; 
But I only gained the threshhold. 

When I fell, pierced by Satan's dart — 
Tho' long years passed out of the fold 

He cannot now keep us apart. 

Christ Jesus witnessed the parting, 

Whose love we know suffers the most, 
But with grace cov'ring the smarting, 

There's reason for making this boast. 
Far from the goal in search for it. 

With back upon the sheepfold door, 
Adding dross to a soul unfit 

With the angels ever to soar. 
From whence the light that guides the blind? 

Or casts a ray to depth of hell ? 
Can man so found be so unkind 

That he declines when asked to tell? 



Fifty-six 



CONFETTI THROWING 

It ill-becomes our native pride, 

Of wholesome fun in harmless joys, 

Compelling Liberty to hide 

From confetti-crazed girls and boys: 

Hoodlums always are indiscreet 

And cannot with fair play compete. 

Give the devil a single inch 

And you've given him all he wants ; 
He knows the ropes and does not flinch 

To boldly step into old haunts ; 
It further heightens all his joys 

When ladies act as his decoys. 

Picture the scene, which gaily starts. 
On the street in a crowd of friends, 

Wherein refined decency parts 

When strangers mix their uncurbed ends 

Dresses torn in immodest play, 

Non-combatants sharing the fray. 



Fifty -seven 



CLEANING THE SUMP 

Old fat-belly Thorne, of the Marvine mine, 
An Irishman born with wit in his spine, 
Ploughed the wrong field forty miles and a rod, 
When he shook the crowd, pick, shovel and hod ; 
Then, Thorne was a popular name down there, 
When seemingly Micks were made for mine air, 
With respect to all who own the good name. 
Here's luck to the maul on one just the same. 

A farmerish boy, somewhere in his teens, 
A mongrel alloy that didn't know beans. 
As venturesome near as his "butty" fat, 
'Twas equally clear his name wasn't Pat ; 
As long as a rail and fully as lank, 
A kink in his frame like a grindstone crank. 
Went down in the dark, the smoke and the dust. 
To paddle his bark beneath the earth's crust. 

Thome's name had a handle, but 'twasn't Ike, 
For Ike is distinctly Jewish, — shore Moike ; 
Now an ancient custom is still a fad, 
Significance names a beloved lad. 
Henceforth in our colloquy "Ike" will serve. 
For a gentleman collier blest with nerve. 
As for "Butty" he had more names than hair. 
Some are still with him and some died down there. 

In the days of yore, those happy old days. 
The fire-boss' shanty had sunny ways. 
The company men, 'bout twenty in all, 
Each had his seat on the bench 'round the wall ; 

Fifty-eight 



And jokes fully ripe, while lies that were green, 
Were told to amuse and sometimes a scene 
Ensued that would turn pleasant rays to hot. 
And the sun that day dropt into a slot. 

E'en tho' they were rough in their words and ways 
They were not the rough of the movie craze ; 
The fire boss himself was one of the boys, 
Whose tongue had to help in the harmless noise — 
In the old shanty, the latter was king, 
Until the brass lamp came in on the wing, 
For when the voice of the mine boss was heard, 
'Twas the signal to move without a word. 

*'Pliat kinda terbacca yer shmokin, Lee? 
Jist gimme a pinch and I'll shmoke wid ye." 

"I yavent a bit but a little dust, 
That's erbout arf coal but shmoke it I must." 

"Yer a lyin dog, yer neffer haffit. 
An' always hafter shmokin ther lasht bit. 
So I'll shmoke my own." Producing his box, 
The rascal thus proved himself a sly fox. 

Tobacco or oil was a miner's tip. 
That brot from the drivers a "double" slip ; 
Sometimes a cotton or a powder can 
Would seal affection between boy and man. 
But if some poor dab would none of these give, 
'Twas forgotten he had a right to live ; 
Thus begging a chew was a common game. 
Played every day, then and now, just the same. 

The free-hearted "buck" with tobacco, — say. 
His friends outnumbered the wisps in baled hay. 



Fifty-nine 



While behind his back 'twas often they laughed, 
No kindness of heart mingles lust for graft ; 
Glory oft hides in the wake of a dunce, 
The wisest of men was one at least once, 
Right at this moment some genius doth pass, 
With some into fame, with some as an ass. 

And such was the bunch altho' more anon. 
For I have a hunch we ought to move on ; 
Ike was a trusty, at least with the boss. 
But he turned rusty and counted life dross, 
Yoked with the farmer, his grip slipt on hope. 
Dull was the armor around Ike, the mope ; 
With pick and shovel they went down the pitch, 
Bending to trouble in digging a ditch. 

One shovel a scoop, no Irishman born. 
Marvels 'twas buried in the "gob" by Thorne, 
Then his pick too blunt to loosen the muck. 
He sat down to grumble o'er measley luck. 
One shovel and pick enough on the job. 
For a real tough mutt and a tender slob. 
And as to the work, — alas and alack. 
The pair of 'em truly deserved "the sack." 

As time slipt by fast and Lanky grew slick, 
With mine boss passed, there were two asleep quick : 
But one day asleep ('tis sad to relate), 
Ike managed to creep away from his mate 
Tho' not until he ('tis said to his shame). 
Had stript his butty of clothes and lampflame ; 
The poor frozen chump, the likes of a ghost. 
Made boys and mules hump scared to death, almost. 

Sixty 



Nor was that the last of Long-Legs' hazing, 
Just part of the cast of things amazing; 
One day they were after having a piece, 
A custom observed of letting work cease, 
While they emptied cans and often their heads, 
Of a sort of chaff, — rather ink, — it spreads. 

"I say, Ike, what do they mean by the sump?" 

"Arrah g'wan, d'ye think I'm a pump ?" 

Then in his bland way, his eyes in a quizz, 

Ike came back softly: "What think you it is?" 
"Well, I've heard of lakes that lie under ground." 
"Oye, shore, an that's it, as shore as you're sound." 
"But what do they mean by cleaning the same?" 

Said Ike's butty with a quivering frame. 
"Why the coal, to be shore, that's washed ashore." 

May the Lord forgive him for this and more. 

That conversation was too rich to keep. 
And laid foundation for tales of the deep, 
That were told from lips as broad as a monk, 
Conceived from the yarn of a lying skunk. 
"Next Saturday night, we will clean the sump," 
Said the fire boss, who was in on the dump ; 
But the next Friday would end up that week. 
For one of the gang with a human streak. 

The bottom of the lake was soft fire clay. 
So greasy no one could stand in the bay. 
Many a poor buck had severed his kin. 
They never come back if once they slip in, 
As no mortal man had e're went across. 
The devil himself, over there was boss ; 
"Refuse to go in? O, no, you won't. Cap, 
For that's the bottom of your cushioned snap." 

Sixty-one 



To be sure, big fish with eyes like a cat, 
That lived on fresh meat and were fat at that. 
Game? Why a roe-shad can scarcely be caught, 
Just ask Finnegan 'bout the one he fought; 
Queerer than all was the fringe on the male, 
Long slender strings not unlike a rat's tail, 
And these, it was said, had been caught more oft. 
Their tails tieing up to legs that were soft. 

They differed from fish that are seen without, 
Not having scales and are speckled like trout. 
All slimy, of course, like a bloomin' eel. 
When exposed to light their thin skins '11 peel, 
Just like a laborer out in the sun, 
But when that happens, it's high time to run, 
For their undercoat is supplied with wings, 
And cat-o'-nine tails with a thousand stings. 

While fishy, their tales of that awful sump. 
When the boss's lipped in, spades were the trump, 
Then 'twas still more lies 'bout snakes in that pond. 
Whose color would match a peroxide blonde. 
Their tails wound in coils of copper-like wire. 
And their heads were arcs of electric fire. 
Of course they had names that were often sung. 
Which you couldn't speak 'thout an Irish tongue. 

The coal that is loaded from off those shores, 
Is frequently mixed with most precious ores. 
And as thieves there are, the company rude. 
Ruled that all muckers must labor there nude ; 
When Slim remonstrated or showed a doubt. 
The infernal gang would his doubtings scout, 
But time brought a showdown for him at last, 
CLEANING THE SUMP was a thing of the past. 

Sixty-two 



INITIATION 

Bill Banks had lived a score of years, 
Or thereabout, within the town, 
That held a thousand of his peers 
And some of more or less renown. 
Keen as Eve, who pryingly sought 
To find the key of mystery, 
He fain would find the cup so fraught, 
In the knighthood consistory. 
Now many men, if truth were told, 
For social standing were like bent. 
Who went within unflinching, bold, 
And yet withal, in weakness went. 

"Methinks I hear a bleating goat. 
Midst the boisterous noise and fun, 
No doubt the greatest farce afloat. 
Is being staged or has begun." 

" 'Tis not too late to gain the street. 
If you think you cannot face him ; 
We are all apt to get cold feet 
At this stage of the flim-flam-trim." 

"What means the chains that rattle so?" 
Feigning indifference, he speaks 
As a child at a movie show. 
Displaying emotional streaks. 

"The chain you hear will longer be. 
By one more link of subserved will, 
Now strong enough to gird life's sea, 
And hold against its very ill." 



Sixty-three 



"A pretty theory, I vow, 
But practically it is vain. 
For all the sects to this dream bow, 
To waken midst distress and pain." 

"Take courage Bill, for well you know 
The best of men do likewise seek, 
The mystic shrine, where bending low. 
They make obeisance to the shiek." 

Then all was quiet, when there came 
A gentle knocking at the door. 
Bill drew his breath with quaking frame, 
Fairly wishing the thing was o'er. 

A voice demanded: "Who comes here?" 
The Guard replied: "A poor outcast. 
Who, having seen our light, drew near 
For shelter, from the wintry blast." 

This little speech, naively dressed. 
Reverberated through the hall. 
("A poor outcast instead of guest,) 
An after salt, previous gall. 

"Does he believe in God Supreme? 

And has he paid the entrance fee ?" 
(Although not said, still it would seem, 

The last is first, exotery.) 

"Has he been found a man of worth. 
Free from the stains of moral crime?" 

"Most Worthy Shiek. Since from his birth, 
The candidate has lived sublime." 



Sixty-four 



Bill Banks was taking all this in, 

The paradox as so much salt, 

Quite as one will when purged from sin, 

Keenly discern the truth and fault; 

And if at first he felt chagrin, 

'Twas soothing to step in between 

Extremes of truth, without, within, 

And know the conflict was unseen. 

I 

"Admit him. Let him take the oath, 
And to our laws subscribe his name, 
For if to these he should be loath. 
His application we disclaim." 

With halting breath and softened tread, 
Into the darkened lodge they strode, 
Tho' fear in all its phase soon fled. 
Skulking the power in their ode. 

Initiatory Ode. 

The world without our lodgeroom door, 
Forever strives in thirst for gore, 
Bold robbers since the days of old. 
Have laid in wait to feast on gold. 
'Tis thus in unity we stand. 
For love of God on sea and land, 
Demands protection for the poor. 
That all may thru this life endure. 

Our flag to liberty unfurled. 
Respected scion of the world, 
Protecting all o'er whom it waves. 
From being bought or sold as slaves. 

Sixty-five 



Let charity toward man abound, 
For life demands this fertile ground, 
In those who look to God above, 
For grace below to reign in love. 

Both march and song were timed to end, 

As candidate to altar came, 

Petitions often there ascend. 

That God may bless our rite and aim. 

The blindfold raised that eyes might view 

The solemn scene and therefore feel 

All that followed was to imbue. 

Cause and effect of knightly seal. 

The chaplain gowned in sacred cope, 

Which made him look the part assayed. 

Spoke briefly on the subject : "Hope." 

Then in behalf of all he prayed : 

*Our Father, who in Heaven art, 

Whose name will ever hallowed be ; 

Thy kingdom come and on our part 

Thy will be done eternally. 

We seek Thee in the hour of need. 

As tho' Thine eyes were not alway 

Upon us as we daily feed. 

Wandering heedlessly astray. 

Our constant faults keep us in debt, 

Beyond expectancy of hope. 

If thou hadst not charity set 

At Thy door whereunto we grope. 

So may this thot our hearts deep bind 

Till we learn to love more each day 

Those who against us trespass, blind 

To truth that enlightens our way. 

And lead us not, O Father, Dear, 



Sixty-six 



Into temptations that may claim 

Attention from Thy love and fear, 

To drown us in a sea of shame ; 

But may we not in childlike trust 

Depend upon our faith in Thee 

To keep us from all evil lust, 

Yea, from the evil one be free. 

Though insignificant are we. 

And chained in darkness by his might, 

Omnipotence alone is free ; 

Thy light hath conquered o'er his night. 

And Thine be the glory for aye. 

Towering hope in home-sweet-home ; 

May Thy models fashioned from clay 

Garnish as gems Thy Holy Dome. 

And now^ may this our humble pray'r 

With angels of Thy mercy pace. 

That all who love Thy name may share. 

The fullness of Thy loving grace." 

With the "Amen" this scene was o'er. 

And to the scribe they now proceed, 

When asked to swear, Bill promptly swore, 

Fulfilling all the lodge decreed. 

Then he was taken from the hall, 

As tho' to try his native wit. 

In climbing o'er the mystic wall, 

A stunt that takes a lot of grit, 

And when the floor was staged anew. 

Again a knock came at the door. 

But Bill now knew just what to do, 

It was so tame and time a bore ; 

Then he was told to rap three times. 

And say that he was rich but blind, 

Sixty-seven 



That to prevent bold highway crimes, 
He traveled with a valet, kind ; 
Then in he went, no trick at all, 
'Twas plain to all he was sore vexed; 
Around and 'round the darkened hall, 
He wandered, wondering, — what next? 
Now Bill had often heard that games 
Of mock intensity were played, 
Escapades ranking Jesse James, 
But in this thot he was dismayed ; 
His valet-guide anon would say : 

"The night is dark. A storm doth brew. 
A lightning flash illumes our way. 
Hark ! I tremble ! Dost thou fear too ?" 

In vain Bill tried to say : "No," bold. 
And strivings only angered him. 
With scarce a voice and tongue that rolled. 
He muttered : 

"No-o-i-im." 
"Beyond the copse about a mile. 
And to our right there is a cave. 
To which, it may be worth our while, 
To hurry and a drenching save." 

Fast and still faster Bill was walked. 
Stumbling o'er strings and things for rocks. 
The while his valet kind(?)ly talked. 
Of wild beasts, snakes and whatnot shocks. 

"Stop!" he whispered in great alarm ; 

"Two large green eyes are just ahead. 
They seem to threaten us with harm. 
Let us lay low and feign the dead." 



Sixty-eight 



As Bill was just about to drop, 

The most unhuman yell was heard, 

And panther-like three men now hop, 

As hungry puss upon a bird, 

And in the melee Bill now lost. 

His blindfold, temper, clothes and shoes. 

With lights turned on, 

the tempest tossed. 
Sets full sail for an outward cruise. 
Into the ante-room he sailed. 
Declaring he had had enough. 
But once the mystic wall is scaled. 
Who looks back over pathway rough ; 
Donning his clothes he found his grit. 
Had settled in its former place. 
Sunnier smiles his soul now lit. 
With corresponding facial grace; 
Congratulations were then giv'n. 
The gladiator knighthood crowns, 
On having successfully striv'n, 
Against the foe she subtly gowns. 
In turn, reluctantly he fell 
For his description of the fight. 

"In short," said he, "No scene in El 
Paso hath so cruel a sprite." 

The Sheik announced in sober mien, 
The storm had long since passed o'er head, 
That panthers were no longer seen. 
And treacherous guides had all fled. 
Thus it were well to reconvene. 
And seek to learn those helpful laws. 
That give us hope in faith to lean. 
Upon a sir knight in the cause. 

Sixty-nine 



'In life all men are prone to live, 

Continuous man's first estate 

As it now is, since destructive 

Worms have eaten thru God's mandate. 

The infant cries until its fed. 

And then it sleeps or coos awhile. 

But as it lies upon its bed. 

Something without brings forth a smile, 

And thru the years of childhood age. 

Attentions are bestowed by all, 

'Til vanities the ego cage, 

'Til youth's attire is one of gall ; 

Thus selfishly he wends his way. 

Thru least resistant paths of life. 

And thotlessly regards the clay. 

Surrounding his unconscious strife. 

While in the end, if given chance, 

He marvels o'er his queer career, 

Before him all is dark expanse. 

Death, hand-in-hand with deathless fear. 

Religion therefore should be made, 

The first real thot, to enter in 

The mind, of whatsoever shade. 

As it directs a path thru sin. 

Religion, based upon God's Word, 

As otherwise there is no end 

Of paths, o'er which mortals are spurred. 

To give earth-action to their trend. 

Religion, because of vision, 

The lighthouse on life's stormy sea. 

Without which, human decision, 

Would be lacking ascendency. 

Religion, because, as we said. 



Seventy 



Of natural bent at the end, 
Life sin, regrets, no mortal head. 
Can stand the strain such thots attend. 

Salvation then from life of woe, 

Follows in line of serious thot, 

To all who note that as we grow, 

Evil on every side is fraught. 

For man is powerless alone. 

To live and fight thruout his day 

In honor, as he should in tone 

With the image God made from clay. 

Thus we must hold God's law supreme, 

In mapping out our future course. 

Belief in God, comes first we deem 

In all matter of mortal force. 

And while 'tis often said by men. 

The Bible can be made to back 

All kind of schemes, 'tis only when 

Preponderance of good is slack; 

So then, my brother, read this Book, 

With renewed interest sublime. 

For therein lies the rules to brook 

Life ills, unto the end of time. 

Our mystic rites are but begun. 
As are relations to your weal. 
And while we had a little fun, 
We feel assured the bruise will heal ; 
The blindfold, you remember well, 
Is symbolic of life's dark road. 
When once in light, no tongue can tell. 
How life without the light doth goad. 
So let this truth sink deep in heart, 
On no pretext ever betray 

Seventy-one 



These mysteries, that on your part, 

No conscience pricks shall blight your way. 

Be prompt attending meetings here, 

It is a commendable trait, 

Aiding the knighthood to endear 

Itself, where sorrows doth await. 

Man is born to trouble, 'tis said. 

Naturally as sparks fly up. 

But no brother begging his bread 

Remains with us, linked to that cup. 

We make no claim of perfection, 

In file or as a unit whole. 

Admittance by man's election, 

Hath no relation to your soul. 

But as in love God gave His Son, 

To unify humanity. 

We feel a step t'ward this is won, 

In embracing true charity; 

Charity first unto our own, 

In principle rather than gold, 

Not that we would wish to condone, 

Unpunished crime within our fold. 

But rather that we should suspend. 

Judgment, whene'er it comes to light. 

That a brother must trouble fend. 

And give him succor in his fight. 

When you obtain your last degree, 

Explanations will then be due. 

Pertaining to the mystery. 

And secret work you're partly thru, 

Thus, in conclusion, we would say, 

As we have done, do you in turn ; 

Serving, we have thrown a life-ray. 

At your feet to cherish or spurn." 



Seventy-two 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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